


Accidentally Seductive

by braveten



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, In which Viktor is Yuuri trash #1, M/M, Phichit helps get them together bc they can't seem to figure it out on their own, and Yuuri is blissfully unaware
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 02:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8872936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braveten/pseuds/braveten
Summary: Yuuri Katsuki is a walking contradiction.(And it’s driving Viktor mad.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic after episode 11 ruined my life last Wednesday. (Who else is both hyped and horrified for the finale next week??) Also be sure to let me know if you'd like to see a chapter two for this bc I was considering writing one!! Leave a comment and let me know what you think!

Yuuri Katsuki is a walking contradiction.

(And it’s driving Viktor mad.)

The first Yuuri he had met was promiscuous. This was the Yuuri that had danced with him at the banquet, had wrapped his arms around Viktor in the most tantalizing manner, providing far, far too much (or too little?) physical contact. His hair had been mad, his suit ruffled beyond belief, his lips full and tempting.

Viktor had met the second Yuuri when he’d come to Haesetsu to offer to be his coach. The second Yuuri was timid, got flustered whenever Viktor asked him a personal question. He was adorable, with big eyes and flushed cheeks. Sometimes he’d take his worry his lower lip with his teeth when he was thinking hard about something.

For a while, Viktor had thought that the first Yuuri—the touchier Yuuri—was just his drunk self. After all, everyone had some sort of a drunk persona.

And then he’d assigned him a routine: On Love - Eros.

(Sort of like a science experiment.)

Viktor didn’t try particularly hard in school, but he remembers the scientific method, and his results absolutely did not match his hypothesis. It turned out that the first Yuuri could be present without alcohol, that the alter ego was a continuous, yet hidden presence inside his student’s personality.

So, Viktor concluded that Yuuri #1 arose when he was either intoxicated or on the ice.

An odd combination.

And this isn’t to say that Viktor didn’t like Yuuri #2—of course he did. It was just that he wanted to get to know his student in every way possible, to learn every nuance of his personality, and that was an impossible task when Yuuri was skating Eros, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as he starts the routine and looks Viktor straight in the eyes with a look that could _kill._

For the record, Viktor is surprised that look hasn’t killed him yet. He supposes it will just take some time.

“How was that?” Yuuri asks, and the moment he leans down to take the guards off of his skates he is transformed, already giving Viktor a shy, nervous smile. He sits down on the bench and looks up at his coach through long, dark eyelashes.

Viktor swallows, realizing he hadn’t paid attention to the routine.

(Well, that wasn’t true. He’d actually paid too much attention to the routine. Just not the right _aspects_ of the routine.)

“Your free leg was a bit sloppy during the final step sequence,” Viktor lies.

Yuuri just nods eagerly. “I’ll work on it. Should I do it again?”

He’s tempted to say yes for his own selfish purposes, but then he notes the beads of sweat on Yuuri’s forehead and the way he has sunk into the bench, exhausted. Suddenly, guilt overwhelms Viktor—he’d been working his student to death and he hadn’t even had the decency to genuinely watch the routine.

“No, I think we’re done for the day,” Viktor muses, sitting down beside Yuuri.

And then he has an idea.

Most scientists do follow-up experiments, don’t they?

He moves closer to Yuuri. Yuuri doesn’t even look at him, just starts to untie his skates.

“Let me,” Viktor offers, taking Yuuri’s ankle and bringing it onto his lap, undoing the black laces slowly, one hand working on the knot and the other gripping his ankle, holding him still. It’s an inefficient method, but given the way a breath is caught on Yuuri’s lips and his entire body stills, the experiment is in progress.

He removes one skate and sets it aside, getting to work on the next one. Viktor can feel Yuuri’s gaze on him, heavy, like a warm winter jacket, but he doesn’t return it. Simply focuses on the skate.

And then, he slides Yuuri’s legs off of his lap, smiling at him. “Ready to go?”

Yuuri looks as though he’s in a trance. Suddenly he blinks, his pink lips parting in a way that makes Viktor stare unashamedly. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

 

~

 

“Yuuri sure is different when he’s skating to Eros,” Yurio notes as he stretches, one leg on the bench in front of him and the other out behind him.

Viktor is leaning against the lockers, watching the blonde. Yuuri is on the ice, practicing some basic flips. Viktor winces as he misses a quad and falls to the cold ground, picking himself back up an instant later and trying again. The persistence is admirable. “He is,” Viktor answers. “That’s what you should aim for, too.”

“I don’t mean like that,” Yurio scoffs. “I mean… _Different._ ”

Somehow, Viktor knows what he means. But he’s not about to admit that. “Different?”

“Like he’s not just _imagining_ Eros.” Then Yurio seems to catch himself. “I don’t know. Whatever,” he adds, qualifying his statement.

“He’s genuinely feeling it,” Viktor informs him.

Yurio laughs. “You think the piggy is thinking about _pork cutlet bowls_ when he skates like _that?_ Guess you don’t know your own student very well, Nikiforov.”

Viktor isn’t sure how to respond to that. Yuuri is skating over to them, wringing his fingers out in front of him. He’s wearing a blue jacket today—one that Viktor hasn’t seen before, he notes—and his usual black track pants. The moment he makes eye contact with Viktor, he smiles, and Viktor smiles back without hesitation.

Yurio rolls his eyes dramatically. “You two are gross.”

“What?” Yuuri asks innocently, blinking at him.

“Nevermind.”

 

~

 

Viktor is unsure of how to continue his experiment. He considers every possible way of seeing a sober, non-skating Yuuri #1—the licentious side of his student. He rationalizes the experiment by considering that, maybe, if he can get Yuuri’s more confident side to come out more often, it could potentially help his poise before competitions.

But if Viktor is being honest with himself, that is absolutely _not_ his primary intention.

Viktor likes learning new things about Yuuri. He enjoys striving to learn every nuance of his character, the meaning behind every microexpression that graces his features. It’s like discovering a new passion and instantly needing to learn more, a constant craving for new information, new facts, details, figures.

(He doesn’t want to use the word “obsession.”)

(But if the shoe fits.)

Viktor wants to be the expert on Yuuri Katsuki. He wants to major in the subject, wants to gather all the information he can about the man who had inspired him with a viral video so long ago. Well, it hadn’t been that long, but it certainly felt like it. Viktor can easily divide his life into two segments: Yuuri and Post-Yuuri.

He prefers one segment to the other.

“So are you two a thing?”

Viktor stares at Yurio blankly. “Are we…?”

Yurio is examining his fingernails, putting on an excellent i’m-trying-to-act-like-i-don’t-care-but-i-sort-of-actually-do expression. Viktor knows him all too well to fall for it. “I figured not. You’re both too thick-headed.”

“Yuuri and I?” Viktor asks, frowning.

Does Yurio know something he doesn’t know?

“Yes, you nitwit,” Yurio complains. “You seriously haven’t noticed? Every time you two look at each other I wanna barf.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Yurio just grumbles something incomprehensible.

 

~

 

That night, he thinks about Yurio’s words. He makes his way to Yuuri’s room, knocking on the door loudly and hearing a grunt in response. Taking that as an affirmative answer, he swings open the door and steps inside to see a bundle of sheets on the bed.

“Yuuri?”

“What time is it? Is it late?” Yuuri asks, yawning.

“It’s the middle of the night.”

At that, Yuuri yawns again, but this time the sound is mixed with a small groan and it’s _absolutely endearing_ and Viktor tries to steady his one-track mind. He still isn’t visible and Viktor steps closer, sitting on the side of the bed. “I couldn’t sleep.”

There’s no response and for a moment, Viktor wonders if he fell back asleep. He knows that Yuuri values his sleep more than he does his figure skating career, but he genuinely couldn’t sleep. Surely that doesn’t make him a bad person, does it?

Yuuri sits up, some blankets falling down onto his lap. Viktor sees his mess of hair, his half-lidded eyes, his dark blue t-shirt and wonders if this is some sort of fantasy.

Because if he were in Harry Potter (a wonderful book series which Yuuri had insisted he read), and he looked into the Mirror of Erised, he’s pretty sure this is what he’d see. Yuuri, half asleep, in this t-shirt, in his bed, staring at Viktor. Every factor of that seems better than the last. Viktor is tempted to just not say anything else, to just stay sitting like this for as long as he’s allowed.

“Why couldn’t you sleep?” Yuuri asks, and his words are lazily stringed together as he props himself up on his elbows, evidently too exhausted to continue sitting at a normal, ninety-degree angle.

“I don’t know,” Viktor admits.

Yuuri runs a hand through his hair—Viktor has to hold himself back from mimicking the movement despite the suddenly overwhelming temptation—and leans over to his nightstand, grabbing his glasses and placing them on his nose. “What do you want to do, then?”

And this is the Yuuri he loves. The Yuuri that is obviously exhausted beyond belief but is still offering to do whatever Viktor wants to do, the sweet, self-sacrificing Yuuri. Viktor feels a warmth flutter in his chest and he smiles down at him. “You can sleep. Don’t stay up because of me.”

Yuuri looks slightly confused, and Viktor understands why, because his words just instantly contradicted his actions. He’d woken him up in the middle of the night, and now he was telling him not to stay up? Viktor wishes he knew what he wanted.

(Well, he knows what he wants. But… on a less platonic level.)

(The non-platonic version may or may not involve removing those glasses and drifting his fingers through that mess of black hair, selfishly keeping Yuuri awake for the rest of the night. Or perhaps not so selfishly, because he’d kiss his neck until he’d beg for more…)

Then there’s a hand on his arm.

Yuuri’s hand.

And Yuuri is swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “C’mon.”

“Where are we going?” Viktor asks, though he doesn’t complain as Yuuri makes his way across the room in lazy steps, his hand drifting down Viktor’s arm until their fingers are laced, their hands fitting perfectly together.

Definitely a dream of Viktor’s come true. He considers asking Yuuri some questions to make sure he’s real.

“Let’s watch a movie,” Yuuri suggests.

Yuuri takes him to a room tucked away in the building, consisting of a small TV—far, far smaller than the one in Viktor’s flat in Russia—and a few couches surrounding it. There’s a fireplace in the corner that looks as though it hasn’t been used in years, and some photos on the walls depict Yuuri as a child.

Viktor stares at one. Yuuri was on the ice, hands stretched outwards on either side to keep his balance, his eyes wide and horrified. He laughs and Yuuri glances over at him. “I think I was five in that photo.”

“Talented,” Viktor teases, and Yuuri nudges his shoulder in response.

They lower themselves onto the couch and Yuuri picks up the remote, stifling another yawn, and chooses some Japanese movie Viktor has never seen nor heard of. He expects Yuuri to explain the plot, or maybe even the title, but instead he just… _Oh._

His head lowers onto Viktor’s shoulder. Their fingers are still tangled.

_Oh._

Viktor holds a breath. Yuuri cuddles even closer to him, yawning again as he wraps an arm around Viktor’s side, holding him close. Viktor shifts so that they’re laying down, then regrets the action instantly because Yuuri is _on top of him_ now, his head pillowed on Viktor’s chest.

Perhaps regret isn’t the right word.

Surprised. He’s simply surprised.

(And absolutely horrified.)

“You smell nice,” Yuuri says, his free hand bunching up the fabric of Viktor’s shirt.

It takes every ounce of Viktor’s self control not to start hyperventilating then and there. Because Yuuri is impossibly attractive as he cuddles against Viktor, and Viktor is all too aware of every possible inch of contact, of the younger man’s weight on top of his own body, of his soft hair nuzzling Viktor’s collarbone and chin.

The movie is quickly forgotten.

So is everything else other than Yuuri.

Viktor wonders if this is what heaven feels like. If so, he could die happily right now, spending the rest of his life with Yuuri on top of him, his hands wrapped around the younger man so that he doesn’t fall off of the couch.

Yuuri yawns again—and Viktor shuts his eyes as he feels Yuuri’s hot breath through his thin t-shirt. Yuuri’s cheek nuzzles against the fabric, his skin pale and soft, inviting like a warm cabin in the middle of a snowstorm. Viktor has never been particularly religious, but he figures this would be a good time to start praying.

“I smell nice?” Viktor repeats slowly.

“Soft, too,” Yuuri mutters, delirious. “Very soft.”

“ _Soft?_ ”

“Mmm.”

Then Yuuri shifts. Viktor assumes he’s getting comfortable.

He’s wrong.

Lips press against his clavicle. A hand is tugging down the collar of his shirt, as if testing the fabric’s integrity, seeing how far it can go. Like some sort of twisted game.

“Yuuri?”

“Mmm?”

“I think you’re tired.”

“Yeah?” Yuuri responds, and Viktor isn’t sure if it’s a question, a statement, or an agreement, but he _is_ certain that he wants to hear Yuuri talk in that breathy voice for the rest of his life.

“And maybe you shouldn’t be…”

Yuuri looks up at him.

Those eyelashes. Those _eyes._

(The eyes are something that stays consistent from Yuuri #1 to #2: they are always beautiful. Always tempting. Always filled with everything his words don’t say, everything the rest of his body language doesn’t reveal. They’re gorgeous and captivating and the color of caramel and everything, _everything_ good in the world.)

“Do you want me to stop?”

No.

Viktor hasn’t even processed the question, and yet the simple answer ‘no’ comes to the forefront of his mind. In fact, if Yuuri stops now, he wonders if he’ll make it through the rest of the night without spontaneously combusting. He wonders if he’ll be able to watch Yuuri perform Eros the following day, wonders what effect tonight will have on his sanity for the rest of his life.

“I…” is all that comes out. He can’t remember the last time he has been left speechless.

Yuuri smiles. _Smiles._ Minx.

“You?” The syllable is sleepy, and yet it carries more logic than his previous words had.

Before Viktor can formulate a response—which probably would have taken him a while, anyways—Yuuri’s lips are back on his neck. Viktor’s hands fly to the back of his head, holding him in place and weaving through his jet black hair, his eyes falling shut at the sensation. Yuuri’s lips are warm and inviting and it’d be _awfully_ embarrassing if he passed out right now but he’s fairly tempted.

“Viktor,” Yuuri mumbles against his skin.

The vibrations from his voice are too much. Viktor breaks. “I don’t want you to stop.”

Yuuri seems to like that answer. His hands are splayed across the upper half of Viktor’s chest, stuffed down the tiny collar of shirt in order to reach, and his lips continue their methodical journey across his neck, occasionally pausing.

“You’re so…” Yuuri starts, his words trailing off. His hands and lips still.

“Yuuri?”

He waits a moment.

The sound of snoring fills the room.

Viktor pauses.

This could not have just happened. He doesn’t know if he should be offended or turned on.

_Impossible._

He looks down at Yuuri and the younger man looks at peace. His cheeks are flushed slightly and his breathing is steady, eyes gently shut and his arms moving out of Viktor’s shirt and lazily wrapping around his torso instead, holding him close. Viktor wonders how he so quickly descended from heaven to hell.

Yuuri Katsuki just fell asleep while kissing him.

It’s like the punchline to a bad joke.

(Turns out that bad joke is his life.)

 

~

 

Viktor adds a mental note to his experiment. Yuuri #1 could come out when Yuuri was sleepy, too. It was as though the ice, the alcohol, the lack of sleep lowered his inhibitions, and that was what provided him with the confidence. He updates his hypothesis.

Before, Viktor could argue that he was performing this experiment to learn more about Yuuri. Now he just really, really wants Yuuri to kiss him again.

To the point where it’s driving him mad.

Because Yuuri #2 is back, horrified when he wakes up on top of Viktor in the morning, scrambling off of him and muttering some lame excuse in Japanese before sprinting out of the room at full-speed. _Even faster than his rotations on the ice,_ Viktor notes grimly, blinking as the younger man disappears.

He wonders if Yuuri remembers the night before.

 

~

 

That afternoon, Yuuri practices Eros again.

“I tried to fix my free leg,” Yuuri explains, obviously seeking approval as he pants, his hands on his knees.

The same hands that had been bunched in his shirt the night before. Viktor stares at his long fingers blankly. “Right.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Did I fix it, you think?”

Viktor rocks back on his heels, trying to remember how this conversation had started. Oh, right, Yuuri’s free leg. “I think you fixed it.”

Yuuri beams.

Viktor contemplates the moral acceptability of pushing Yuuri to exhaustion again in hopes of repeating the night before. Hopefully with a better ending.

(It doesn’t seem morally acceptable, the angel on his shoulder argues. The devil is too busy staring at Yuuri to argue back.)

“Oh, Viktor, could I talk to you about something?” Yuuri asks as he removes his skates, blatantly avoiding eye contact.

Viktor’s heart skips a beat. “Of course.”

“I’m really sorry about last night,” Yuuri blurts. “I don’t really remember how we ended up, umm… I just don’t really remember, but I was really tired and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable somehow.”

And here’s the punchline to the follow-up joke, since the first one fell flat.

Viktor wants to sink into the floor. “No, you didn’t.”

“Good,” Yuuri answers sounding relieved, then instantly changing the subject. “So what should I do now?”

_Kiss me? Do that thing with your lips on my neck again? Say my name in the same breathy way you’d said it last night? Remember, maybe?_

Viktor figures those aren’t the answers that Yuuri is going for. “Let’s work on some quads. We want to get your success rates higher before the next competition.”

Yuuri looks hopeful. “Yeah, okay.”

 

~

 

Viktor is desperate.

“Phichit?”

“Oh, hi, Viktor,” Phichit answers, looking a bit confused on the video chat, eyebrows drawing together. “Um, how did you get my number?”

“Yuuri,” Viktor answers, not wanting to add the fact that he hadn’t exactly asked for Yuuri’s permission to steal Phichit’s contact information. But, as was previously stated, Viktor is desperate.

“Right,” Phichit says, smiling.

There’s an awkward silence.

“Um, so did you have something you wanted to…?” Phichit begins, making a vague hand movement.

Viktor is currently in his makeshift bedroom, Yuuri had gone out to run some sort of errands for his mother. Viktor had seen this as his chance. “Yeah, I do. I wanted to talk to you about Yuuri.”

“About Yuuri? Is he alright?”

“He’s fine,” Viktor says quickly. “But you know him well, right?”

“Really well,” Phichit confirms.

And so he spills.

He tells Phichit about his experiment, about that night with the movie. Everything.

Phichit listens, going wide-eyed at certain moments and slack-jawed at others. Viktor cannot believe he’s telling all of this to a man he barely knows, but judging by Phichit’s reactions, he was the right person to tell.

“Wow.”

Viktor sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “What do I do?”

“Depends,” Phichit answers, looking thoughtful. “What are you trying to accomplish?”

And perhaps that’s the issue.

Science isn’t performed without a goal.

Then he remembers the feeling of Yuuri pressed against him, the feeling of his lips on his neck… “I have something in mind.”

 

~

 

The plan is titled Project Yuuri. Phichit, however, prefers the alternate title: Project Viktuuri. Viktor winces at that title. _It sounds too much like victory,_ he complains.

Phichit, who he subtly texts when Yuuri isn’t looking, responds with, _But isn’t that sort of suiting??_

Then, Viktor points out that the name of the project is somewhat irrelevant. It’s the execution that matters.

He waits for Yuuri to perform Eros again.

And he does. And he looks gorgeous and Viktor doubts himself in that moment, wondering how the hell he’s possibly going to seduce Yuuri Katsuki when the man looked like a deity come down from the heavens and onto the ice. How he’d do it when Yuuri had his hair slicked back like that and had shoved up the sleeves of his jacket to reveal his forearms.

Even his _forearms_ were sexy. That was just…

“How was that?” Yuuri asks, the same thing he asks after every practice.

Then, his student steps off of the ice and the confidence is gone, the air of purposeful seduction gone and replaced with the air of accidental seduction.

(Yuuri is _always_ accidentally seductive. Because even when he’s tired, or grumpy, or quite literally doing anything, he’s attractive to Viktor.)

(Therefore, accidentally seductive. A suiting phrase.)

“I have a few pointers,” Viktor responds, trying to make his voice low, sultry, _praying_ that it works because his nerves are alight and for whatever stupid reason he hadn’t expected Yuuri to look quite this good. Hadn’t expected it to be this difficult. Yet the lion approaches the gazelle, but the metaphor quickly gets jumbled in Viktor’s mind because which one of them is the gazelle again? And which one is the lion? And, god, why had he and Phichit thought that this would be a good idea?

Yuuri frowns and there’s a small crease on his forehead. Viktor remains diligent—like a soldier. “Oh?”

“Yeah, but I think it’d be best if I showed you,” he informs Yuuri, walking over to the lockers to pull out his own skates that he’d stored there ages ago.

Viktor hasn’t skated with Yuuri in the room since he’d first choreographed Eros for him. He’d skated at other times, of course, be it the middle of the night or the middle of the day when Yuuri was busy for whatever reason, but not with Yuuri in the room.

(He doesn’t miss the way Yuuri’s voice has gone thick, the way he wipes his hands on his thighs, nodding a bit too quickly, a bit too nervously.)

“Okay.”

Viktor puts on his skates, taking his time as he does so because he can feel Yuuri’s gaze, can feel the nervousness pouring off of him like water off of a cliff, the feeling overwhelming and exhilarating. He remembers Yuuri’s watchful eyes from when he’d first skated Eros for him, demonstrating the choreography. The fear of the complex routine mingling with the lust—or, at the time, what Viktor had hoped was lust.

He steps out onto the ice and Yuuri is behind him, keeping his distance.

It’s a different dynamic when Viktor isn’t behind the railing of the rink, when he’s standing only a few feet away from Yuuri. “Start the routine,” he orders.

Yuuri does.

There’s no music, yet Viktor can hear the familiar tune with ease.

Normally, the start of the routine is the most sensual, but this time, Yuuri falters. Viktor stops him, pursing his lips. “Hang on—try again.”

He does. It’s the same.

“Yuuri, what’s wrong?” Viktor asks, though he knows because he can feel the shift, too, can feel the electricity pulsing in the air between them.

“It feels different,” Yuuri admits shyly, rubbing the back of his neck. “With you here on the ice, I guess.”

Viktor smiles sympathetically. In truth, he’s not sympathetic at all. “Try pretending I’m not here.”

Nothing changes. Yuuri looks disappointed in himself. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to… It just feels different.”

Viktor waves his hands. “Doesn’t matter, that wasn’t the part I wanted to help you with anyways. It was a part in the step sequence. Could you pick it up from after the first jump combination?”

Yuuri knows the routine well—he does as Viktor says. This time, the confidence is evident in his moves, and Viktor wonders if it’s due to the fact that he doesn’t have to make eye contact with this time, that he can simply focus on the skate. Viktor tells him to pause and Yuuri freezes in the middle of a step, arms by his sides and his face cast downwards towards the ice. His breaths are already coming quick.

Viktor comes up in front of him and touches his chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. Yuuri’s eyes are as gorgeous as ever, flickering back and forth between Viktor’s own as if searching for answers. Viktor provides none, simply giving him a sly smile.

He touches Yuuri’s torso on either side, gentle hands guiding him. Yuuri’s jaw drops, his posture stiff. “Relax, Yuuri,” he encourages, and with that simple word it’s as though Yuuri has melted into his touch, his muscles relaxing and his eyes meeting Viktor’s with a newfound confidence.

“What about the step sequence should I change?” Yuuri’s voice is low, now, matching Viktor’s own. Each syllable is pronounced delicately, his eyes carrying a glint that hadn’t been there before, the soft light of the rink illuminating his features. After the sentence has left his lips, Yuuri’s tongue darts out to wet them before disappearing once again.

Viktor realizes one—no, two—important things in that moment.

Neither of them are talking about the step sequence anymore.

And then, the second thing.

They had never been talking about the step sequence in the first place.

And he knows that Yuuri knows by the look in his eyes, by the mischievous glint that he’d only ever seen on three occasions.

Ice. Alcohol. Sleep-deprivation.

He has got his scientific experiment in front of him, ready to be tested, and he has no idea what to do with him. It’s overwhelming. Viktor’s hands on Yuuri’s sides drift down to his hips, feeling the sharp bones beneath his fingers. Yuuri doesn’t react, his eye contact saying it all.

“Well, Viktor?” he asks, and it takes a moment for Viktor to process the words because Yuuri licks his lips again. He tries to tear his eyes away from the sight, but it’s a pointless effort. Like trying to stop a moth from flying into a flame. Like trying to swim across the Pacific Ocean. “Aren’t you going to coach me?”

Viktor moves closer to him, and though he’s normally more comfortable on skates than he is on his own feet, his legs are trembling. When he looks farther down, he can see that Yuuri’s are, too, his physical reaction betraying his expression. “Is that what you’d like?”

He moves a hand from Yuuri’s hip upwards—grazing across his chest, his neck—until he’s touching his jaw, his fingers delicate and light. This time, Yuuri shivers, and Viktor can’t help but grin at the sight of his student finally letting go of a tiny bit of his resolve.

It’s like a war zone, really.

Neither gives up.

“I’d like that,” Yuuri answers, and they’re so close now that he has to look up in order to see Viktor properly, his cheeks flushed ever-so-slightly but not in the normal, embarrassed way. This is something else. This is heat, this is desire, this is…

Yuuri places a hand on his chest, pushing him back.

Viktor stumbles backwards, catching himself and staring at his student, wide-eyed. Yuuri looks unaffected, raising an eyebrow, as if unimpressed. “Then show me?”

Swallowing, Viktor realizes what Yuuri wants him to do. He begins the step sequence, exaggerating the movements, yet paying careful attention the jump combination that comes afterwards.

He has skated in front of thousands. He has won more gold medals than he can count on both his and Yuuri’s hands combined.

And yet this audience of one has him more nervous than he has ever been before.

“Like that,” Viktor states at the end, giving Yuuri a look.

Yuuri had been watching him, practically hypnotized. As soon as Viktor speaks, though, he seems to catch himself, blinking rapidly and regaining his composure. “Can I try?”

Viktor just nods, stepping back as to not get in his way. He watches as Yuuri performs the step sequence again, the exact same way he had a thousand times before, because honestly, Viktor hadn’t actually made any adjustments.

When Yuuri lands his final jump, the sound of his skate clashing against the ice fills the room, sharp and perfect. Viktor smiles at him approvingly. “Much better.”

And then it all happens at once.

First, he notes Yuuri coming towards him.

Then, his lower back is against the half-wall of the rink, the upper half of him about to topple over the other side, and his hands grip the railing to stop himself.

And lastly, he realizes what is happening.

Yuuri is kissing him.

Sober, awake Yuuri Katsuki is kissing him.

Hard. Rough. Relentless.

Viktor moans, leaning forward into it then quickly remembering that they’re still on skates and they go toppling in the other direction, grabbing onto each other to stay up. And yet Yuuri’s lips refuse to lose contact with his own—as they drift into the middle of the rink one of his hands comes up and grips Viktor’s hair, tugging on the strands. The other is wrapped around his back, pressing their chests against each other.

When Yuuri runs his teeth along Viktor’s bottom lip, he arches towards him and they tumble to the ice, Viktor’s palms splaying across the cold ground. But instead of getting back up, he simply finds Yuuri and straddles his legs with his knees, immediately kissing him again, pressing his tongue against his lips, asking for entrance.

Yuuri complies with a breathy sigh and Viktor moans again, though this time the sound doesn’t go anywhere besides the nonexistent space between them. “Yuuri,” he says the moment he backs off, staring down at the man currently laying on the ice, his lips bruised from kissing, his pupils dilated.

One of Yuuri’s hands grips the back of his neck and pulls Viktor down on top of him so that he can get to work worshipping his skin, sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin near his Adam’s apple and then going lower towards his collarbone. The sensation is familiar and new at the same time and Viktor lets himself sink into the feeling, careful not to collapse on Yuuri and hurt him, and then he reminds himself that they both just fell on the ice and Yuuri could be hurt but then Yuuri’s hips are arching up into his…

“Viktor,” Yuuri breathes, his eyes flying open, the caramel color familiar.

(And his eyes are consistent between the two versions of Yuuri, remember? The flushed, innocent one and the confident one share the same sparkle in their irises, and though Viktor thought he knew which one he was currently kissing it occurs to him that perhaps he was taking the wrong scientific approach. Perhaps Yuuri #1 and Yuuri #2 are more intertwined than he’d thought.)

(He doesn’t have long to dwell on this alternative hypothesis because Yuuri is back at his neck, stealing away whatever logical thoughts Viktor may have had.)

(Currently, his only thought is “guh.”)

“Do that again,” Yuuri pleads, and Viktor realizes he has no idea what he is talking about.

Then he realizes that his only thought may or may not have been pronounced out loud instead of in his head. And he remembers that, though they’re currently kissing on the cold, uncomfortable ice, there’s still a game at hand. And Viktor still hasn’t given up. He pulls away from Yuuri slightly, eyes boring down into his. A challenge. “Make me.”

“I intend to. But not here?”

Viktor scrambles to stand up, then helps Yuuri up, too. He notices his elbows are red from where they’d been pushed into the ice and Viktor winces. “Are you alright?”

Yuuri looks confused. “What?”

“The ice—are you hurt?”

“Oh. No.”

He grins. “Good.”

(They’ve never skated to the benches faster.)

Viktor takes off his skates hurriedly and Yuuri practically tears apart his laces, throwing the expensive skates to the side the moment his feet are freed. “Where do you want to…” Viktor starts.

Yuuri grabs his hands and leads him to the locker room, placing his hands on the older man’s shoulders and pressing him against the nearest row of lockers, immediately getting to work on his lips. Viktor’s knees feel weak as he presses back against Yuuri, his eyes falling shut and his body melting into the lockers behind them, happy to let Yuuri do the work, happy to let Yuuri do whatever he likes.

Eventually, Viktor grabs Yuuri by his sides, lowering him to the locker room floor and pulling him onto his lap. Yuuri squirms on his lap and Viktor realizes that he’s hard at the same time that Yuuri does, his thigh bumping into Viktor’s erection and a shocked gasp escaping his lips.

The next events happen in a blur.

First, Yuuri backs away, off of his lap and scrambles on his knees and hands to the other side of the room, sitting against the adjacent row of lockers.

Then, it takes Viktor’s mind a moment to catch up. Takes him a moment to realize his arms are no longer wrapped around that warm presence, takes him a moment to realize Yuuri’s soft hair isn’t close enough to be touched any longer. Takes a moment for the feeling of rejection, rejection, _rejection_ to stab him in the gut.

“Yuuri?”

Yuuri swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his eyes dart around the room, looking everywhere but Viktor. “Sorry. I’m… just—sorry.”

Viktor wonders if this is what it feels like to die.

His chest feels empty, as though Yuuri had taken all of his organs across the room with him, his heart, his lungs. He can’t tear his eyes away from the other man, can’t focus on anything else, can’t hear anything other than the sounds of his panicked breaths. When he looks at Yuuri, all he can see is the red of his elbows where they’d hit the ice and the curly tangles in his hair where Viktor’s fingers had been.

(And this has to be death, _has to be,_ because the sign of life is feeling and Viktor doesn’t feel, doesn’t cry and doesn’t fight and doesn’t do anything.)

Just stares.

Meanwhile Yuuri is already sniffling, already trying to hold back his emotions, and what happened? Viktor tries to figure it out, tries to retrace his steps, he’d thought that they had been on the same page but obviously he’d been so, so wrong.

“I’m so sorry,” Yuuri says, his voice an octave higher than normal.

A moment later he stands up on shaking legs and leaves the room.

Viktor is alone.

In every sense of the word.

 

~

 

An hour later, he finds Yuuri in his room. The innocuous white door is ajar, and inside is a bundle of blankets that looks all too familiar. He remembers the similar scenario several nights ago, the way Yuuri had tugged on his arm, leading him to the tiny room with the television. The memory makes nausea swirl in his stomach at the thought that that may never happen again, that Yuuri may regret those events in the first place.

“Yuuri?”

Yuuri doesn’t look at him, still buried under the sheets. He doesn’t say anything, but Viktor can tell he has acknowledged his presence by the way that the figure in front of him stiffens.

“Can we talk?”

“You should go,” Yuuri answers, his voice hardened in a way that Viktor has never heard before. It’s not angry, nor is it sad, it’s just jaded. As if he has come to terms with whatever it is is going on in his head.

Viktor wishes he could go back to an earlier time. Wishes he could read Yuuri’s thoughts. Wishes he’d never started this stupid idea in the first place, wishes he could go back to the ice, to the simple student and coach dynamic.

Everything was easier that way.

“I’ll pack my things,” Viktor offers, swallowing.

Still dead, he realizes. Still unfeeling.

There’s just a constant pain that won’t dissipate, a constant pain that he realizes he’ll most likely carry with him for the rest of his life. He starts to leave the room, heart heavy.

Then Yuuri speaks again, and the crying is obvious in his voice and Viktor just wants to punch himself in the face. “What?”

“You said to go,” Viktor explains, rubbing the back of his neck.

Can’t Yuuri see that he’s head over heels in love with him? Couldn’t he tell by the way he said his name, by the way he held his gaze? If Yuuri has ever had any respect for him, why is he driving the knife farther into his heart, twisting it and turning it?

“I meant from my room.”

“Oh.”

Then Yuuri sounds even worse. Shattered. “You want to go back to Russia, don’t you?”

“I don’t.”

“Oh.”

Yuuri pauses again, and Viktor hears another sniffle. He moves to the bed, sitting beside Yuuri, trying to get a look at him. “Yuuri, can you look at me?”

Surprisingly, he obeys. He tugs the covers down and…

His hair is sticking up in all different directions, his eyes rimmed with red and his lips chapped. His cheeks are tear-stained and there’s panic evident in his eyes, fear and anxiety and sadness and everything that shouldn’t define Yuuri, everything that should never, never be allowed to touch him.

(Because negative things and Yuuri just didn’t fit well together. It was like mixing together two different foods with different textures.)

“I’m so sorry,” Yuuri says again, as if he can’t help himself.

Viktor blinks, confused. “I don’t think we’re on the same page.”

“I don’t think so, either,” Yuuri laughs, though there’s not a hint of humor to it. It’s stale and dry. Lifeless.

“So can you talk to me?” Viktor pleads, and he reaches out a hand to touch Yuuri and then pulls it back immediately, realizing it’s a horrible idea.

Yuuri shifts farther into the covers, successfully hiding his face again. “I don’t know.”

Viktor bites at his lip, and it’s probably a habit he’s picked up from Yuuri and that thought just _destroys_ him so he stops, rubbing at his forehead and trying to stop the headache that is threatening to come. “I should be apologizing,” he says eventually, sighing. “I misinterpreted. I thought you wanted what I wanted, and I should’ve stopped to ask before we…”

“No, Viktor.”

“What?”

Yuuri sniffs. “I do want what you want.”

“…Then why…?”

He burrows farther into the covers and Viktor cannot help himself so he wraps an arm around him, cradling Yuuri’s figure to his chest. Miraculously, Yuuri doesn’t seem to mind, and he shifts slightly closer to Viktor, giving in to the touch. He knows that things like this are easier for Yuuri if he doesn’t have to make eye contact, and Viktor rests his cheek against the top of the blankets. 

“A lot of reasons,” the younger man says. “It has nothing to do with you.”

Viktor shakes his head. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve never had sex before,” Yuuri blurts out.

Viktor pauses, unsure of how to respond. He’d assumed that already, judging by the fact that Yuuri didn’t have any jealous exes attacking him in Haesetsu, but to hear him say it was another thing altogether. He sounded…

“And I know what you were trying to do, earlier. I know that I’m different when I skate, I’ve got more confidence, and I was afraid that maybe you wouldn’t want me… Like this. Without it. So I tried to keep it up, and I did for a while, but I couldn’t forever, because that’s just not always _me,_ Viktor. I wish it was, because I know that that version of myself is the best version, but—“

“—that’s not true—“

“—but I just couldn’t.”

Viktor rubs comforting circles on Yuuri’s back, or whatever part of the jumble of blankets he assumes is Yuuri’s back, and shuts his eyes. “Anything else?”

“I’ve admired you forever,” Yuuri admits, as if he can’t stop the words, now, as if he has pulled out a drain plug and now it won’t fit back into its designated position. “I’ve admired you forever and when you came here I didn’t think that you’d ever… I didn’t realize that you…”

His words trail off and Viktor doesn’t mind. He remembers how flustered Yuuri had been when he’d first come to Haesetsu, how shocked he’d been. Yuuri had grown used to him since then, but there were still moments when he’d catch Yuuri looking at him as if he wasn’t truly there. As if he’d disappear at any moment.

(If Yuuri had looked closely at Viktor, he’d see the same look.)

Because Yuuri Katsuki hung the stars in the sky. He’s the flame that lit the sun and the soft light that the moon reflects. He pulls the tides onto the shore and the moment he walks into a room the dynamic just changes, as if he has become the center of attention and rightfully so, as if the world revolves around him and he doesn’t even know it.

“Can I talk now?” Viktor asks gently.

There’s a movement under the blankets that he assumes is a nod, but he needs to see Yuuri when he talks so he lowers the blankets to catch a glimpse of his face, tilting his chin up so that their gazes match. Yuuri’s hands are shaking ever so slightly so Viktor grasps them in his own, stilling them. It’s more physical contact than he’d been willing to risk a few minutes ago, but Yuuri doesn’t fight it.

“Firstly, I don’t care that you’ve never had sex before. At all.”

Yuuri opens his mouth to protest but Viktor shushes him with a simple look. Yuuri sinks back into the sheets, silent.

“Secondly, yes, I was doing what you think I was trying to do, but absolutely _not_ for the reasons you think. Yuuri, I don’t only love the confident part of you—“

Yuuri’s eyes go wide at the confession, but Viktor continues.

“—I love all of you. Everything about you. I love your glasses, I love the way you skate, I love your confidence and your lack of it, too. I love every tear, every laugh, every smile.” Yuuri smiles at that, his cheeks flushed, and Viktor smiles back. “So don’t you _ever_ think that I only want part of you. I want the whole Yuuri Katsuki package deal.”

“Viktor,” Yuuri mumbles, tears welling in his eyes again.

“And as for that last part, I’m okay with you admiring me.” Viktor winks at him.

Yuuri groans in embarrassment, shoving his arm, and Viktor soars with happiness. “Shut up,” he complains, still sniffling.

“In fact, you can put that poster collection back up, if you want,” Viktor muses, glancing around the room, as if imagining them.

Yuuri is groaning again, this time burying his face in Viktor’s chest instead of the blankets, and Viktor only smiles harder, wrapping his arms around him and holding him close. “I’m sorry that I’m a lot of work,” Yuuri mumbles, the syllables muffled by Viktor’s shirt.

“I think I’m more work than you.”

“Now _that’s_ true.”

This time, Viktor bumps his arm, grinning brightly. “So are we settled, then?”

Yuuri looks up at him, his eyes still red but no longer holding the fear they’d shown before. “I think so.”

“We’ll take things slow. And when you want more from me, _if_ you want more from me, just ask. You’re in charge, Yuuri.” Viktor bows to him jokingly and Yuuri laughs a little, the sound magical to Viktor’s ears.

“In charge, huh?” Yuuri repeats, pulling away to look Viktor in the eyes.

“Absolutely.”

“Absolutely?”

“Mhmm.”

Yuuri seems to contemplate that, his expression thoughtful. “And I can just ask?”

Viktor examines the little wrinkle that forms between Yuuri’s eyebrows when he focuses. “Yes—for anything.”

“Can I kiss you?” Yuuri asks.

And Viktor loves those four words because that isn’t confident Yuuri asking. Nor is it shy Yuuri. It’s just his Yuuri. Plain and simple.

He answers by pressing his lips against Yuuri’s, though he only initializes it—then he lets Yuuri lead, smiling as Yuuri presses him down against the bed, laughing when they fumble with the sheets to get the positioning of the kiss correct. “I love you too, by the way,” Yuuri mumbles, pressing a delicate kiss to the corner of Viktor’s mouth.

Viktor is certain he couldn’t stop smiling if he tried.

 

~

 

In the middle of the night, he feels Yuuri’s warm presence in his arms and sighs, pressing a gentle kiss to his hairline. “Thanks, Phichit.”

“What? Did you just say _Phichit?_ ”


End file.
